“Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me — the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art. The artist is the only one who knows the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world.” ~Anaïs Nin (The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5: 1947-1955
And so it is that we write while we struggle or when the Invisible World is not close enough or to create that invisible world of our own. When we have done with creeds or schools. When the world is not world enough or is too much. When there is too much of everything but not enough of the right thing. When the hands shake on the keys or scribble on the page. We write.
And then too, we write when the sun is shining or not. When there is a moon that shows her face and when she does not. We write.
Are we breathing? Yet? When there is a shadow around the corner, or on the rug. Maybe then.